O, she says (because she loves to say O),

O to this cloud-break that ravels the night,

O to this moon, its mouthful of sorrow,

O shallow grass and the nettle burr's bite,

O to heart's flare, its wobbly satellite,

O step after step in stumbling tempo,

O owl in oak, O rout of black bat flight,

(O moaned in Attic and Esperanto)

O covetous tongue, O fat fandango,

O gnat tango in the hot, ochered light,

O wind whirred leaves in subtle inferno,

O flexing of sea, O stars bolted tight,

O ludicrous swoon, O blind hindsight,

O torching of bridges and blood boiled white,

O sparrow and arrow and hell below,

O, she says, because she loves to say O.